


Dirty

by Gabriel_JS



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Anxiety, Consent Issues, Drug Addiction, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 20:17:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2441681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gabriel_JS/pseuds/Gabriel_JS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Story about Shepard that shouldn't be written. Ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't read this story. I know you won't like it. Seriously - leave now. This story has been written for one person only to fulfill his "prompt".

I’m sitting on the bed, bent forward, elbows on my knees, staring at the monitors. But I don't see all the reports scrolling on the displays. Not at all. There are other images flashing in front of my eyes. Distant memories from old, very very old times but now so vivid and actual again... I shiver. And I shiver once again when the feelings hit. Hard. Without mercy. And it doesn't matter that I’m here alone, safe in my personal cabin.

_Safe_.  

It resonates through my mind without having any calming effect.

_Alone._

I remind myself.

_Alone!_

I repeat and still I feel the panic attack reaching for me. And I lose it.

I can feel it. Them. All of them. I can feel every touch, every thrust, every breath tickling my naked skin.... I’m sick. My fingers are trembling even when I sink them deep to my thighs; my breath is shallow and it comes out fast, too fast...

I break out in a cold sweat without noticing it.

I’m about to throw up and then I’m kneeling at the cold metal floor and barfing, unable to stop, inevitable tears running down my cheeks. And they are not the tears of despair or fear, just a physical side-effect of vomiting as such. And it doesn’t matter. I don’t care. I’m not able to care. Actually I’m even not here, not presented.

I’m back there.

I’m sixteen. He is sitting next to me on couch, smiling. He places his hand on my left thigh and smiles even more and I feel that something is going to happen and I don’t like it already. I’m nervous and I don’t want to be here. He is talking. His voice has that strange tone, it’s sweet and he is promising and talking and talking and touching me and we will just caress each other as always and the clothes disappears slowly on the floor. And I’m saying no to him but he insists and I’m trying to escape and he doesn’t allow it. And then it’s his finger in my… his finger _there_ … and it hurts, it’s burning… his body is pressing me to cushions and I’m too afraid… Later he kicks me from his flat and I’m standing in front of the building and don’t know what to do, what to think. I said no, didn’t I? But he is my boyfriend. He is supposed to be one. So… But I didn’t want it and I tried to avert that. So? I’m confused and I leave and later I sneak into showers and try to wash it away, rub it away with my skin and it hurts as my sore ass hurts and I feel dirty. Used. And the hot water runs out and I still feel dirty. Dirty. Dirty.

Dirty.

I meet the guy several times after and he is touching me again and actually fucking me and I’m cold and not responding to him, but he doesn’t seem to care. It feels wrong and I don’t want it. But I’m here, so it is my fault. I let it happened. My fault. Mine. And it hurts more and more – inside me. Not exactly down there. Well, not _only_ down there.

Every time when I come back to my place at Reds, I curl up and cry until falling asleep. Exhausted. Confused.

And later I stop meeting my _boyfriend_ and start meeting other people, fucking almost strangers – guys I know for few days or few hours only – and I start taking drugs besides dealing them, trying to avoid feeling anything about these sex adventures, trying to bottle everything up and forget it completely. Trying to pretend that everything is fine and cool, that I’m okay and that it’s actually fun.  Only it’s not.

I am nineteen. I enlisted almost year ago to escape from street life, from Reds. I went through basic, was shipped away from the planet. And still I haven’t stopped it. Maybe couldn’t stop it. Drugs. Promiscuity. I allow other people doing _things_ to me, still pretending I am okay with that. And I think that I deserve it and I try to persuade myself that I like it. Do I?

Once I am drugged to oblivion and wake up later sore but not dirty as my _lover_ probably used a condom. I wonder why – why drugs? He or they could have me without them.

I’m sick.

I believe no _good_ guy would ever touch me again and I enjoy being beaten up as the pain is a solid proof I am still alive which is actually the most stupid idea from a soldier who risks his life every time his boots touch the ground of new planet. But I am telling myself that at least I am not hooked on adrenalin and I pretend I believe that I am not putting my fellow soldiers in danger. Other stupid idea, of course.

Nevertheless, I am living my secret dark second life without _important_ people knowing. Thinking I am. Only I am not. My CO knows. Later he let me know he knows. And he really does. He knows. Everything. He knows about the drugs and strangers that are fucking me and strangers that I am fucking. And I vaguely remember meeting him in _the_ bar long ago. And I allow him to blackmail me because I don’t want to be kicked of the army. Because it’s my only family and I don’t have any other place to go. And maybe, just a maybe because I feel it is well deserved punishment for the life I am leading. So I go down on my knees and suck his cock whenever he tells me to do so. I don’t even pretend I like what I am doing. He seems to not care. And I think it’s all the same again. The same as hundred times ago so I shouldn’t mind it. But for some strange reason I do. I hate it. Really hate it. What is actually perfect for him as he is not enjoying the blowjob I am giving him as much as humiliating me. And I am taking more drugs and offering myself to more guys to forget.

It’s not working.

And then one day I am kneeling in front of him again and this time I do my best to pretend I like it, just to spoil his pleasure. But it’s like he is waiting for it when he laughs telling me he loves me being eager to please him and adding he would like to share my care with somebody else.

And he does. He does share it.

He does shares me. My mouth. With other soldier from our unit.

I am screaming inside and probably weeping outside and something breaks. That’s enough. I can’t continue. Can’t bear it further. I am willing to leave, to leave behind the only thing keeping me from living on the street again. Dealing drugs and taking them and fucking to oblivion? So be it.

And I think that this is my last mission because I plan to quit right after coming back from it. Simple task, they say. Easy money, they say.

Akuze.

Oh Gods… _Akuze_.

I come back but nobody else does and the two sons of bitch are dead and I celebrate that. But at the same time forty eight good men, my whole family, are gone and I mourn that deeply. Survival guilt is eating me alive and it is good enough to hide the darker secret I bear; something that no psychotherapist will ever know: that I hate myself – when it comes to Akuze – for feeling joy first.

I still do, but it has been years now. I believed it was all gone. Away. Lost.

Forgotten.

And now I am kneeling at the floor of Normandy SR-1, puking over my hands just because the fucker Thoombs has survived after all, bringing all that memories back with him. I wish I would shoot him right there where he was standing and accusing me of surviving. That bastard!

I hope my anger will suppress the nausea that’s causing my stomach to flip over and over, but when I throw up again involuntarily, I just helplessly roll over on my side and fall prey to self-pity. No tears, not sobbing, just silence thoughts reminding me to be junkie, male whore… lonely and unwanted for fucking good reasons.

I am contemplating about staying alone for the rest of my life because no good guy would want to get involved with me, when there is a hissing sound of opening door. And then there is Lieutenant Alenko running fast toward me. He brings me up while carefully avoiding vomits all over the floor next to me and he hugs me tightly to help me maintain sitting position.

"Commander, are you all right?" he asks and he doesn’t loosen his arms around my torso a bit, his voice full of sincere worry.

_Alenko. Oh, keep dreaming you loser!_

"Shepard?" he articulates my name with even bigger concern when I don’t answer him fast enough.

_Alenko._ My vision blurs.

"Shepard!" he shakes me slightly to get my attention. "Talk to me," he insists gently, anxiety making him even more handsome.

_Kaidan._

_Please..._


End file.
